


Broken-Down Fairytale

by Cosmic_Biscuit



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 06:19:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5406218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmic_Biscuit/pseuds/Cosmic_Biscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aftereffects of being sacrificed to the goddess and a small look at slowly falling apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken-Down Fairytale

Everything hurts.

Though cold and unseasoned, so bland she would have turned her nose up at it two weeks ago, the water-thinned stock broth _burns_ its way down her throat when she struggles to swallow the first sip. But when he asks if she wants more, she manages to draw her lips into a thin shadow of a smile.

Both because her stomach is gnawing in hunger, and because she _knows_.

Because she can feel the tremor that moves from his hand through the china rim of the bowl as he holds it to her mouth. Because she can feel the way he sags even as he supports her to sit up. Because even though he is trying his damnedest to hide it, she can hear the thin wheeze of exhaustion in his voice.

Even though it hurts -and oh, _God_ , how it hurts- she knows her little brother is doing everything he can to make it better, and that's enough for now to will herself to swallow when he offers the bowl again.

 

===

 

He's running out of options, and running out of god-be-damned _time_. Nothing is _working_ , and his sister grows more fragile and hopeless by the day. He can still hear her sobs in his head, the half-panicked _pleading_ as she realized all of his efforts had failed. Almost unconsciously, he pulls at his shirt, feeling the ghost of bone-thin fingers weakly clutching at his shoulders.

 _Damn_ all this, he wants to scream, then hisses in pain instead as the neck of the flask he was holding cracks and shatters when he accidentally clenches his hand too hard. As he bandages the wounds and chews on his lip in agitated frustration, his mind works a league a minute.

There has to be _something_ he hasn't tried yet. _Something_ he's missing. But he doesn't know _what_ , and he doesn't have _time_ -

Ignoring the sudden taste of blood in his mouth from biting the inside of his cheek too hard, he grabs another roll of paper and starts sketching out yet another idea.

He’ll find the answer.

He _has_ to find the answer.

 

===

 

Her brother has stopped his feverish experiments, and she is half relieved, half terrified. She is so exhausted from his efforts, but she doesn't want him to give up on her. She doesn't want to die.

She _doesn’t want to die_.

But he still comes to her every evening and holds her hand, and insists he's still trying. And she believes him, because the other option is unthinkable.

She wakes when fingers brush her hair, and manages to return his thin, pained smile despite the bite mask in her mouth as he takes a seat beside her bed to change the drip connected to her wrist and the nutrient bag. She hates the little glass piping and the feel of the medical tape against her skin. The bag and everything to do with it disgusts her. But she doesn't have the strength to swallow even soup anymore, and the constant worry continues to press down on both of them.

So she simply closes her eyes to sleep and tries to forget about them.

 

===

 

The Muse from the circus sits quietly in the laboratory when he arrives, and a pang of guilt in his chest at her lost, empty expression almost makes him order her returned to the carnies. But this is his last possible hope, and he keeps reminding himself of that as he sits down across from the clank and begs her help.

It comes pouring out in a rush. He had no choice but to order her taken, and anything he does, he will repair, he swears.

He doesn’t know why he so desperately needs her permission. Though works of fine art, even a Van Rijn is still a clank. Perhaps the childlike madness that has come to his sister since being sacrificed to the machine is beginning to infect him as well. Perhaps it is desperation clouding his judgement.

But when the dancing Muse gently puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him a soft, sad smile and nods, he breaks down and cries.

 

===

 

They're both long past being disturbed that he can carry her easily, so when he comes to the lab and lifts her delicately off the table, she merely puts her arms around his neck and clings as best as she can as he murmurs reassurance and carries her to the newest strange contraption he's built for her.

The idea of being closed in is frightening, but she knows the truth as well as he. She can't walk on her own anymore, or hold anything properly. Everything outside this jar is too painful for her. He lays her gently on the thickly cushioned chair and she makes herself let go of his shirt as he patiently explains everything. The controls are easy even for her to move, the mechanics will handle her internal needs.

One by one by one the lines are hooked and the breathing mask is fitted, and her heart flutters faster than it has in weeks.

He promises to truly visit her every night when her connection to the outside world 'sleeps', if she's feeling up to it, and she requests that he bring food and a warm embrace when he does, trying to make him feel better as much as herself. He smiles and kisses her reassuringly on the forehead.

She wills herself not to cry when the lid comes down and the jar begins to fill with fluid.

 

===

 

Eventually, it becomes their macabre little ritual.

Every night, he dismisses the servants and gives the puppet its hibernation protocols, and carefully lifts his sister out of her protective shell. She tells him any problems she's having with the jar while he towels her hair dry and wraps her in a blanket and cradles her close. More and more often, she's asleep within minutes, unable to drink or eat anything he's brought her, and he bites his lip to keep from making noise as he rocks her gently. And every morning, he bathes her and dresses her and prepares the jar before summoning the servants and 'waking' the puppet as he goes to get some restless sleep of his own.

He should be worrying about the puppet, and how it still functions so well -too well- when she surely can’t be handling the controls herself anymore, but in these moments, all that matters is keeping her comfortable, because he doesn't know how much longer he'll be able to do it. She's still dying, inch by slow inch, and they _both_ know it.

But at least she’s not hurting anymore.

It's small comfort, and does nothing to ease the constant ache in his chest, but it's all they’ve got.

 

===

 

Her brother is struggling to smile, but there's worry and tears in his eyes, and they both know why. But... she's not scared. Not like she was before. Because he did everything he could for her, she knows, and who could ask for more than that? So she tucks her head under his chin, just like always, and lets him hold her close.

She closes her eyes, safe and warm, and dreams of nothing for the first time in ages.

 

===

 

He can't help himself, and a small, almost _inhuman_ noise of pain catches in his throat when he feels her stop breathing and go still and heavy. Wildly, irrationally, his brain starts rattling through ideas. Revival. Or cloning. But it's a futile hope, because he doesn't even know if another body would be any healthier after the hell she’s experienced, and he can't bring himself to go through this again. To put _her_ through this again. So he kisses her hair and carries her downstairs, and then down deeper. Some selfish part of him that has grown far too attached doesn't want their father to know about this, and he can't explain why, but-

The space in the family crypt was supposed to be their mother's. Their mother, with dark hair and pale eyes like hers, who supposedly went riding one day, and was never found. His sister looks so small and frail in her place, in a borrowed casket that isn’t meant to fit her. Unable to look at her for long, he bids a quick, miserable farewell and closes her in, then flees back to her room.

He intends to disconnect the puppet, to end this foolish charade now that the whole point behind it is lost, but when he touches its back, it wakes -only half to his surprise- ever smiling, and calls him brother still. And with the ache still present, he finds he can't do it.

“Good morning to you as well, sister dear,” he says, his own smiling mask fitted firmly in place, before excusing himself to summon the servants.

He’ll move on, he tells himself.

  
Maybe another night.

**Author's Note:**

> A rework of a short fic I did a long time ago on livejournal. Considering Tarvek went to the effort of making the puppet in the first place, I like to think maybe the sibs weren't always so antagonistic and the mindset of their family just eventually got them.


End file.
